


I Know Exactly What This Is

by bela013



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bela013/pseuds/bela013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't fool myself, I know what I am to you. This isn't a game, I know what you are too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melisandre

This is no love story. Her life isn't a song, and no dashing knight will come save her from her deepest fears. And she want no knight, no man to come into her life and protect her from herself. She is a priestess, and in her world, she had to learn how to take care of herself since a early age. There was no space in her life for a knight, for a man.

But he was no mere man. He was a king, her messiah. There was no love for her in him, no affection. But at night, when the sun hides away and the terrors roam free into the land of man, he is everything.

His sense of duty, order and honor may have put a damper on her want to spend time around him. But this same things made him listen to her, in spite her being a woman, a foreign, a believer of faith.

She knows he doesn't really believe in the Lord of Light. He doesn't need to, Azor Ahai need only to fight. And fight he does. He fights with his brother, with his wife, with the realm, with himself. The king only know how to fight.

Probably explain why his hands are so brutish and clumsy when she kisses him. Those large hands don't know where to rest, not on my face, not on my shoulders. They grip my waist enough to leave bruises, bruises that will fade with the rising sun.

It isn't love that drive him to suck on my bottom lip, to bend his back to my level and to press his palm on my back, pulling me closer. He needs me not as a woman, but as an adviser, maybe even as a way to comfort himself. To make him forget the world that denies his birth right.

She let him have the command, guiding him from time to time, making him see that she's not pushing him away, but bring him closer. He is a difficult man to please, first because he believes he doesn't deserve to be pleased and second because he doesn't believe that he can give pleasure. Foolish man, his very presence gives her pleasure.

This wasn't love, of that she's sure, and she didn't care, for he was her king. And her king can do with her as he pleases.


	2. Stannis

Those long waives hair was like blood on his bed linens. That sweet feminine voice echoes on the stone walls. That foreigner language is queer in his ears, but as her nails dug into his shoulders, he let her talk or pray or whatever she's doing as long as she likes.

There was no reason for chivalry with her, she was no delicate little lady. When his teeth sunk into her soft neck, there were no pleas to stop, but screams for more. She didn't deny him. She didn't push him away. All she did was make way for him between her arms and legs.

He would be a fool to believe this was love. And one thing Stannis Baratheon isn't, is a fool.

She can keep her god and her prayers as long as she gives me an army. This thing they had was a mere agreement. She was a comfort in the North, a somewhat misguided adviser most of the times, but a firm believer.

I'm not her messiah, I know this. And judging by the sorrowful look she gives him when she thinks him asleep, she knows it too.

There is times that he pities her, for she is as alone as him. There are times when he thinks about offering her comfort. But how can he offer something he doesn't have?

So, he'll let her fool herself with all her Azor Ahai talk, because that is for her what duty is for him. A sore substitute to a real life.


	3. Stannis

There, sitting by the edge of her little straw mattress, she wasn't the fiery woman that was blessed by her god.

Dark circles, much like bruises, adorned her eyes. Tears streaks down pale cheeks only making those dull and bloodshot eyes more evident.

He wasn't familiar with crying women, they were foreign and wild to him. He had no obligations towards her. The door was right behind him, but so were his own problems, a kingdom to rule and a war to win.

He was still there and her simple mattress gave in under his weight. Her red head din't even turn to his direction, and for that he was grateful.

This wasn't him offering her a shoulder to cry on. This was him not dealing with his own problems by the side of a woman fighting her own demons.

And it was somewhat good to see her like that, a cruel pleasure to see that woman so broken. He wasn't alone in his pride, at only showing an immovable side to the world, letting things to be dealt with at the privacy of his chambers.

Maybe this was a comfort, but not hers. The tears that ran down her ruby like eyes were almost able to bring a smile to his face.


	4. Melisandre

Her hands itched for him, not in tender caress, no. With pain came anger, and in anger she wanted to claw his eyes out.

Here, in her most shameful state was him. Watching her tears, listening to her sobs in the unusual coldness of her little chamber.

She didn't expect soothing words or a affectionate touch from him. All she really wanted was for him to leave her alone with her problems and nightmares from the past.

When she closed her eyes, the images of her shadow covered life were back. The cold winds and queer noises from the long night of Asshai. Even her mother's eyes graced her dreams this time. This was why she doesn't sleep.

That morning, the longing for home was as great as the one from when she was all but a child at the Lord of The Light temple. She wanted more than home. She wanted mother, little Melony and the lot seven. In silence she could hear them, her many brothers playing as dashing knights against their imaginary monsters. She could hear a song, a lullaby by her mother's lips, putting Melony to sleep and calling in her wild siblings. And even now that song was powerful, sitting her cry and calling her king to her.

Which brings me back to his presence by the head of the bed. Imposing eyes judging her pain, taking pleasure from her disgrace.

She didn't want his comfort. The dark king doesn't know what is comfort. And it was time for her to forget the child she once was and get back to the woman she is. On her feet, cleaning her face with a rag, she set to her hearth. And under her breath was a song

. A song she wanted for him to listen, a song she wanted her fires to carry all the way across the lands. A song she hopes, mother can listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can say that this chapter was inspired by another fic of mine.  [Don't Forget About Me](../../366829) is a stand alone, but I think it could be read together with this chapter.


	5. Stannis

He just appreciated the silence, and her soft humming from time to time. Or just the fact that his problems are out there, not in her warm little chamber.   
She sewed new pockets in the insides of her sleeves, all very fast and precise. Made me wonder that she hasn't always been a priestess. Those hands were not of a woman who practiced her needle work with her hand maids, those long finger were to fast for it to be a hobby, she had no grace for a woman sewing a sigil for her lord husband.  No, Melisandre doesn't fit in the role of a wife, at least, not a wife of a man. She's married to her god. Everyone else is a mere tool she uses to get closer to it.

In her bed, sitting in an non lordy way, it's the closest to comfort I've come in weeks. She was all but a arm away, there was no screaming or demands, just silence. I lay back onto her pillow, smelling her in it, having her back turned to me right in front of my face. Her humming make the her back and hair moves, tickling his nose with those fiery strands of hair.

This was a comfort type of relation. They weren't husband and wife. they didn't have to like each other. They didn't even had to talk. And it suited him very much.


	6. Melisandre

There was the soft brush of his breath on her back, all through her hair and dress, right to her skin. They were so close and yet, he wouldn't touch her. It was always a private war in his head before he could lay his hands on her. As his long arm wrap around her waist, she muses how fast today's battle was won.

Onward with her needle work, occasionally distracted by soft kisses being placed onto her hip. The stubble of his chin brushing her, nose buried on her dress. She works even faster, a bit eager to be done and let him touch her freely.

The small pockets have a propose, each and everyone of them. Some for anger, some for lust. Some for the fires, and some are just dust. All kept in secret, a key, a needle and tread, a smallish knife. Not really a knife, but also not a blade, far from a dagger, but as deadly as a sword. It all had it's propose and place. A small pocket for each.

Laying it down on a basket by the foot of the bed, his fingers press her flesh. Teasing or testing her, which she didn't know.

'Is m'lord eager for me today?' he doesn't answer, he never does. He merely looks right into my eyes as I turn to him, my hand pressed by his head, caressing his face ever so slightly.

There is little to do as those big hands pull me to his chest, not in a hug, more like a choke hold without any real pain. I don't mind, it who we are after all. Tenderness means affection, something we don't posses. This. This we had. We had the need, and the want.

I give in to him, my own face buried in his chest, smelling him in his clothes. My king. My messiah.


End file.
